


The Servant's Master

by valderys



Category: 12th Century CE RPF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-13
Updated: 2007-12-13
Packaged: 2018-01-25 03:41:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1629626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valderys/pseuds/valderys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thomas Becket is a true servant, so surely temptation is not a sin if his master wills it also?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Servant's Master

**Author's Note:**

> I tried to make everything as historically accurate as I could - I hope I succeeded! (I have an actual bibliography :) Betaed very kindly by Serenissima.
> 
> Written for Lyrastar

 

 

**1154**

The sun is blinding, is life-giving, it bestows all honour upon the earth. Thomas blinks, before bowing low. The sun shines, and there is nothing that anyone can do but bask in its radiance. He can do no less.

"My Liege," whispers Thomas, as he is given unto the sun, to revel in its bounty.

The young man steps forward, out of the light from the window, his red hair no longer gilded, and his arm comes down upon Thomas' shoulders with the hearty clap of a strong man.

"And you shall serve me well, for your master recommends you highly."

"I shall, your Majesty," says Thomas, feeling the heat of a king as he is clasped, for he will do no less. He was made to serve. He knows that. He is a clever and able servant, but he is not meant to lead. It is not his destiny.

He does not need to. Serving has brought him all he has ever desired.

***

**1156**

"For the sake of all that is Holy, Thomas, will you just eat it!" shouts Henry, throwing up his arms, and Thomas laughs.

He pokes his plate, which Henry has filled with his own hands, as he considers. It wobbles alarmingly.

"Ha!" says Henry, a certain smugness evident, "That is the finest porpoise in all the land. A delicacy! You won't have had that outside of Court, not even at His Grace my Lord Bishop's table, I warrant! Eat it, man!"

They dine alone. Henry's apartments are swathed in gold and crimson. The wine matches, rich and red in a golden goblet. Henry has chased the servants away with a good-natured call for peace.

"And if I humbly wish to refuse, since it seems neither fish not fowl, my Lord," says Thomas, as he looks askance, through his lashes, "Will you hold it against me?"

"I hold nothing against you, Thomas, since you are my loyal and faithful Chancellor," says Henry, with his wide, wide smile, "But since you _are_ my loyal and faithful Chancellor - will you not partake? Will you not join me?"

And Thomas takes up his knife and makes a stab. For he is a servant, and he is loyal. He shares what he has always shared. The choices of his liege, the style to which he will become accustomed. His nature is changeable, his own inclinations unknown.

"And then," says Henry, "And then - you must try these spitted larks, and nibble upon the marchpane castle. Perhaps a wing or two! Ha!"

And Thomas smiles at the King's wit, and it is not even false.

***

**1158**

"You know my mind," says Henry, as he frowns.

Thomas inclines his head, for it is true. In all things, he tries to know his master's mind, and no less in this matter of politics. He has always been clever. Politics is a game of chess, where the pieces can move at their own whim. But they can still be played.

"You shall represent me," says Henry, "You shall, for all intents and purposes, be me."

Thomas bites his cheek, the pain a little aid to control, the better to prevent his own swallowed gasp. He is the King. In this, the embassy to France. He, who has so easily taken on other's mantles. Reflecting what they wished to see. It should be easy - why is he even hesitating?

"Come," says Henry, and his grasp on Thomas' shoulder is tight and hot. Thomas wants to lean into it like a cat.

Henry leads him into antechambers, past bedchambers and storerooms. Thomas calculates the distance in his head, and little clicking sounds echo, like an abacus, that mark the turns taken, the King's intentions. Click, click.

They stop outside a robing room, and Henry throws it wide. There are velvets and satins, both embroidered and plain. Wool and fur and linen. There are jewels - emeralds, and rubies, and fine, fine diamonds.

"All this is yours," says Henry, as he pulls Thomas forward, "If you will only worship me."

"What?" says Thomas, "Your pardon, my Liege."

"All this is yours," says Henry, again, "If you will but go to France and be my mouthpiece. Gain me this marriage treaty."

"I am your servant," says Thomas, for is it not true?

"You are a fine fellow," says Henry, and he smiles tenderly as he draws Thomas into his embrace, "No wonder that I love thee."

The lips that brush his forehead are as hot as fire.

***

**1159**

The King must be the most splendid of all men, the strongest, the most wise. The King must be all this, but Thomas thinks that Henry makes it look so very easy. He laughs at all men's jokes, will hunt or walk for hours, will accept neither weariness nor excuses.

He is never more magnificent than when armoured, and ahorse. He laughs into the wind.

"Come, Thomas," says Henry, "Ride with me."

Thomas knows his own horsemanship is excellent. His training has been extensive. He has travelled to Europe, to Spain and France. He has seen off brigands, and ridden through storms.

"Your Majesty, I don't know if I can," he says, and a huge weight lifts from his back. He is a good servant and he does not like to lie - unless it is required.

"Ah, Thomas." The King's expression softens, his eyes glimmer with compassion. "It is a hard thing that I ask, and yet I must still ask it. For I know the work we do here is hardly to your taste."

He urges his roan, until it draws level with Thomas' own mount, so close their thighs brush. One false move and they would both be crushed. Thomas doesn't flinch. He trusts his master, he always has.

"See, now we are side by side," says Henry, "And I would have it be always so. I need you, Thomas."

"Yes, my Liege," says Thomas, for how can he deny him?

They ride together then, into battle, and Thomas fights at the King's side. His sword arm grows heavy with use, and he tastes metal and salt. Henry laughs through a mask of blood, and there is no mercy. Thomas laughs too, his own blood on fire, as he deals out death.

He has never felt more alive.

***

**1160**

"Thomas, why does nothing satisfy me?" asks Henry, heavy-lidded, his voice rough and strange.

Thomas considers. The King is drunk, a pewter goblet dangling from his fingertips as he lolls upon a couch. He is debauched, his robes askew, for there has been a woman tonight, perhaps even Queen Eleanor. She's had her greedy eyes on Henry all day, all evening. He may even have indulged her.

"I do not know, my Liege," says Thomas, and it pains him, because he should know. Does he not satisfy all his master's whims?

The thought of the Queen disturbs Thomas. Her hands on Henry, disarranging him, rumpling him, causing his lips to become rosy, his voice to crack and groan. These thoughts are unacceptable, they are unbearable. He will not think on them.

"It is not enough, you know," says Henry, lazily, as though to himself. "It is never enough. I am still hungry."

His eyes shine like diamonds. Thomas feels the heat from the fireplace burning his face to as rosy a hue as Henry's. He feels overcome, the air is stifling.

"Should I not satisfy my hunger, Thomas?" says Henry. He pushes himself up from the couch and waves a hand impatiently. The goblet falls unnoticed to the ground.  
"You are my dear friend - do you not agree?"

The King is beautiful. There are many that do think so. He shines like the sun, for his hair is fiery, and his form pleasing. He is broad and strong, and he works hard to keep it so.

"You should satisfy your own," says Henry, softly, and draws Thomas to him. Thomas doesn't protest. He is the King's faithful servant, and besides...

Henry's mouth is ripe and full. It tastes of mead, of sunshine and long summer days. It is a demanding mouth, but Thomas finds that he is just as greedy, as though he is finally indulging after a long fast.

Food in the desert could not taste so sweet. Surely it cannot be such a sin, only to love his master?

***

**1162**

"Dear Thomas, will you not take this role upon yourself?" asks the King.

They sit in a chamber that allows Henry to work on statecraft. But it allows him to throw aside his trappings of office too. They are comfortable together in woollen stockings and second-best robes. But Henry never forgets that he is the King.

He is impatient; his fingers snap, and his eyes glare, for all he uses gentle words. Thomas knows this, knows Henry, that he is not used to being denied.

"Do not ask it of me," says Thomas, once, quietly, "I have never begged you for anything before."

"It is such a simple solution," says Henry, "You will be my eyes and ears within the Church. You are perfect, Thomas." He walks to Thomas' side and his hands stray to Thomas' shoulders. His fingers are warm and knowing as they dig into tense muscles. "You are the perfect person to be Bishop in Theobald's place."

"Do not ask it of me," says Thomas, again, helplessly. "I will no longer be your servant, my Liege - do not send me away."

"Come, come," says Henry, "We will still be thick as thieves, I promise. My pledge on it, in fact."

Henry pulls on Thomas' arm and he turns in his chair helplessly. Henry is limned in colour from the stained glass of the window. Reds and oranges glow - fire colours. Maybe he smiles but Thomas cannot tell.

Henry leans down and presses a chaste kiss upon his lips. It is a simple touch, close-mouthed, yet Thomas yearns into it. He wants to follow, surge up from his chair, explain himself in another language, one in which he is fluent, but he doesn't. He doesn't.

" _Please_ , do not ask it of me," says Thomas in despair, but it is too late. He knows it is too late. Three times he has asked and three times he has been denied. There is irony in that, or a sign. He must go to confession.

"No," says Henry, with finality. Thomas closes his eyes. He doesn't want to see the yawning chasm at his feet. He misses Henry already.

It is determined.

***

**1163**

The Bishop stands facing his King, and all the choirs of angels are arrayed in their glory at his back. They sing, and they shine, brighter than the sun. The Bishop does not wonder that the King squints into the light, although others might say it is only a frown of bafflement. The Bishop does not care. He knows that they are there.

"Thomas, you are my dear friend - why are you doing this?" asks the King.

There are so many things he could say, he hardly knows where to begin. That he is not meant to lead. That it is not his destiny.

"I am a good servant, am I not?" says Thomas, his eyes wide, "I am loyal and faithful. It is all I know."

"Yes," says Henry, pleading, "You are a good servant. I do not understand..."

"Then only understand me when I say that I am loyal and faithful still."

But the King puts out a hand, to beseech, perhaps to draw him close, and Thomas cannot bear it. He steps away. "I am standing on a high place, and you shall tempt me to throw myself down no more. I have fallen far enough. _And Jesus answered him, "It is also written: `Do not put the Lord your God to the test_.'" It is no longer your place to command me. I am not your servant any more."

He leaves the room, and he does not look back.

And there may be grief in him, but Thomas refuses to pander to it or anything else - he has enough penance. With every step he feels his Master's approval caressing his flesh, the hair beneath the silks stroking him raw with love. He will lash himself tonight as a reminder.

His nature is changeable, his own inclinations unknown, but it does not matter. He is as his Master makes him, always.

For he is the best of Servants.

 


End file.
